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Country and River- Side Poems 



BY 

HORACE DUMONT HERR 

W 
Author of 

"Babe of Bethlehem and Man of Galilee^' 

"The Palmer'', "The Tenters" 

and other verse 



ILLUSTRATED 

From original sketches and photographic views 



GATE CITY PRESS 



KANSAS CITY. MO. 



Copyrighted Dec, 1910. H. D. Herr) 



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Page Two contents 



Page. 

Foreword 5 

Sentiment by Henry Wallace 6 

Conciliation. . . » 7 



IDYLS AND LYRICS OF EDGEWOOD 
FARM. 

Page. 

Dedication 8 

Host and Guest 9 

The Story of a Day 11 

The Storm •. 14 

The Feast 15 

Swing Song 16 

The Surrender 18 

The Fox Squirrel 19 

Night 22 

Morning at the Mill. 24 

The Sawyer's Story. . .■. 26 

Man and Nature 28 

The Frontiersman 29 

The Passing of the Cabin 32 

The Relics 34 

Finale and Farewell 38 



CGU278221? 



CON TENTS Page Three 



POEMS OF BACK COUNTRY WISDOM 
AND LOCAL ATTACHMENT. 

Page. 

The Trapper and His Traps 39 

Too Far Away 42 

Saint Saloon 45 

Kansas 46 

Pank, or the Dog and the Ram 49 

Humboldt Town 52 

Labor Day 55 

Wayne, Fair Wayne 56 



SEASON-SCENES AND SENTIMENTS. 

SPRING— Page. 
The Coming 61 

SUMMER— 

Sickle and Song 62 

Moonlight 64 

The Fireflies 65 

AUTUMN— 

The Voices 68 

The Passing of Autumn 70 

WINTER— 

The Man With the Axe 72 



Page Four 



CONTENTS 



RIVERSIDE POEMS. 

Page. 

Morning on the Mississippi 75 

Keokuk 76 

When the Ice Goes Out 82 

Phantoms of the Mill 84 

Meramec 87 



MOODS— 

Page. 

I. Dejection 89 

II. Exhiliration 92 

^'Drifting" 94 

Stemming the Tide 95 



Page. 
THE PILOT 97 



Page. 
SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT. . 102 



FOREWORD Page Five 



FOREWORD. 

Most of the poems here collected, though in- 
spired by local surroundings, and expressing 
personal emotions, yet deal with elemental 
things attractive to all. The Country Life 
Commission, the great Agricultural Colleges, 
and the Farmers' Institutes are turning our 
eyes to rural life as never before. Upon the 
tide of country sentiment this unpretentious 
booklet of poems is launched, not without dif- 
fidence on the part of the author, but with the 
hope that among the more imposing craft that 
sail the sea of literature, this little boat may 
at least attract a few passengers who enjoy a 
voyage not too far from shore. 

— H. D. H. 



Page Sir 



"Th,e farm will in time have its poets and its prophets, 
a literature all its own, "but it must come out of the soil 
and through men of the soil; and this will come only in 
time and can not he forced or hastened. The rose will 
bloom; hut it must have a period of growth first, must he 
bountifully fed from a rich soil beneath, before it can open 
its petals to the sunshine and the dew-drop.'' 

Henry Wallace, 
"7w Wallace's Farmer." 



CONCILIATION PciQ^ Seven 



CONCILIATION. 



If those I love frown at my verse 
And think it hard and crude and hoarse 
My wish to please I still must plead, 
Accept the purpose for the deed. 

The lines I hope, are not so ill 
But some may read the verses still. 
And at the altar of their grace 
Make for my offering a place. 

Not to the learn'd I dedicate. 
But those who lahor soon and late. 
To those, whose tastfi not o'er-re fined, 
Have open heart and open mind. 

May Friends ivho relish country fare, 
And long to breathe the country air 
And feel the heat of Nature's heart, 
Find here some joy if little art. 

And if who read hreathe kindly thought 
For him who for the reader wrought. 
Hell sit, without a sense of loss. 
Below the feet of Burns or Foss. 



Page Eight dedication 



IDYLS AND LYRICS OF EDGEWOOD 
FARM. 



Dedicated to Mr. and Mrs. William S. Hun- 
ter, on whose farm the Edgewood poems were 
written, and whose encouragement and gener- 
osity made possible their publication. 



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''The graders they ivere grading a fill. 
Their tents were just over the hill." 

— Page Ten. 



HOST AND GUEST Page Nine 



IDYLS AND LYRICS OF EDGEWOOD 
FARM. 



Prelude. 
Host and Guest. 



A farmer to a preacher, one day, 

Said "Come to our farm and stay. 

Through August you'll have a vacation, 

Just come on the cars to the station, 

In surrey we'll bring you the rest of the way." 

The preacher, who just wanted a call 

To leave the brick street and hall, 

Decided without much debating 

To close with the offer awaiting. 

So fled he to Edgewood where peace is o'er all. 

Now Edgewood, be it well understood. 
Is where, at the edge of the wood. 
Dwells he by whose kindness was given 
Permission to enter this heaven 
Where Madam and children and all things are 
good. 



Page Ten host and guest 



The dwellings, not too large nor too small, 
Were shaded by pine trees tall. 
Sleek cattle in pastures were straying, 
Sweet children were laughing and playing, 
And squirrels were tame and came at your 
call. 



The graders they were grading a fill,* 

Their tents were just over the hill. 

The loggers their logs were a hauling, 

In woods to their horses were calling. 

And sawyers were sawing the logs at the mill. 



No idler was our host thro' the day. 

Our hostess though busy was gay. 

They knew how to manage their farming. 

And yet found they time to be charming, 

And Clericus sighed that he soon must away. 



A matron and a maiden were there. 
The maid, our host's daughter, was fair. 
The face of the matron showed traces 
That told of a heart full of graces, 
'Twas hers for a pioneer uncle to care. 



*That part of the Milwauhee Railroad which con- 
nects Muscatine with Kansas City was in process of 
construction when this was written. 



THE STORY OF A DAY Page Eleven 

With Archie and Ruth, Milton, Marie, 

And visiting cousins two or three. 

Sure all who reflect must be able 

To see that in house and at table 

There gathered a merry and bright company. 

Tho' wishing that the days might remain, 

Yet Clericus knew he wished vain. 

But hoping in rhyme he might treasure 

Somewhat of their fugitive pleasure. 

He put them in verse there to live them again. 



THE STORY OF A DAY. 
A Sabbath Idyl. 

All thro' the night the pelting rain 
Beat on the roof and window pane. 
The sullen dawn both gray and grim 
Crept slowly o'er horizon rim. 
The ceaseless drip of oak and pine, 
The mooing of the unmilked kine, 
The rumbling of the far off cars. 
And cock-crow calling daybreak hours, 
Proclaimed the Sabbath day begun 
Without the sight of Sabbath sun. 



Page Twelve the story of a day 



Our host went out with gum boots on 
And with him strode his manly son, 
The cows were milked and then turned out, 
The horses from the pastures brought. 
The corn was thrown to hogs in pens 
And shared by turkeys and by hens. 
The calves were shut in their corral. 
The milk was hung down in the well, 
The Sabbath chores were thus attended, 
And so the morning's work was ended. 



But think ye not, who read or hear, 
The day within was dark and drear ; 
When at the board each found a place 
We bowed our heads and uttered grace, 
The father served each one with food. 
The mother's smile made all feel good ; 
No stiffness here or formal feast. 
But all felt free from large to least. 
And counsel grave of golden worth 
Was blended well with childhood's mirth. 



The breakfast o'er and dishes done. 
Each with the Sunday clothes put on. 
We gathered in the sitting room 
More bright because of outdoor gloom. 
The walls were hung with faces dear 
Of kin who were but are not here. 
The "Uncle's" portrait from the wall 
Beamed down upon us one and all, 
A shepherd led his flock afield, 
Munkacsy's picture Christ revealed. 



THE STORY OF A DAY Page Thirteen 



The clouds still shed their Sabbath tears, 
As Magdalene had once shed hers, 
And shut from church and Sunday School, 
We yielded to the household rule 
By which in rain or stormy weather 
All read THE BOOK at home together; 
The pastor took the Rabbi's place, 
And Israel's journeys did they trace 
With question, comment, application 
Suggested by "the chosen nation." 



And when the midday meal was past. 

And sun shone out a while at last, 

Tho' roads were mire and tents were damp. 

Yet went we all to Grader's Camp, 

And some their Bibles took along, 

And others had their books of song ; 

To masters of the grader's tackle 

Good news of love from Heaven sent 

The pastor spoke in boarding-tent. 

As Moses spoke in Tabernacle. 



The evening came with clouds as dark 

As those which hung o'er Noah's ark. 

And when the men had done their chore, 

As in the morn they did before. 

We gathered in the self-same room, 

And light and song dispelled the gloom; 

And while the storm loomed in the north 

And shot its jagged lightnings forth, 

Ruth played the chords that soothed like balm. 

And closed the day with "Evening Calm." 



Page Fourteen THE STORM 



THE STORM. 



The pastor had lingered a moment to say 
"Good-night," as the music had floated away; 
The storm that had gathered had broken at 

last, 
And wide-winged the gale flew furious and 

fast. 



The lightning that shivered the cloud-piercing 

oak 
Too shivered the air with its thunderous 

stroke ; 
The furies of fierceness flew forth from the 

clouds 
And howled thro' the trees like storms thro' 

the shrouds. 



The pines were bent backward at first by the 

shock. 
They writhed and they groaned, did reel and 

did rock, 
Their wide-sweeping limbs did they toss and 

they swing 
Like athletes that struggle and fight in the 

ring. 

Like infantry following a cavalry charge, 

In wake of the wind came the drops swift and 

large, 
Till volleys of rain from the guns of the sky 
Swept everything seaward not anchored or 

high. 



THE FEAST Page Fifteen 



And v/hen we awakened at break of the day 
Brooks were like rivers that hastened away; 
A lake in the field children waded with glee, 
And Cedar his banks had o'er spread like a sea. 

His friend and the pastor strolled out thro' 

the woods 
To measure the damage that was done by the 

floods ; 
The stream like a serpent went winding 'mid 

trees 
Where drifted were wrecks of all sorts and 

degrees. 

Their mission accomplished, their steps they 

retrace, 
And feel of the forest the gloom and the 

grace ; 
Old road-ways they followed thro' fair picnic 

grounds, 
And dinner-bell rang as they finished their 

rounds. 



FEAST AND SONG. 
The Feast. 

At the back of the house, 
In the rays of the sun, 
There we gathered to wash, 
And with banter and fun, 
From the basin on block 
The cool water we splashed 
Like the spray o'er the rock 
When by surf it is dashed. 



Page Sixteen SWING SONG 



Then we trooped to the feast, 
Where our duty was done; 
From the spring-chicken pie 
Not a hero would run; 
Like a white turret deck 
VV^as the fair table seen, 
But 'twas left like a wreck, — 
Empty plates, bowls, tureen. 

When the battle was won, 
Then the farmer rehearsed 
What his plans were for work, 
And his helpers dispersed; 
But the pastor was free, 
So he sauntered along 
To the children's pine tree, 
And composed them a song. 



SWING SONG. 

There is the swing. 
Beneath the pine; 
'Tis just the thing. 
The shade is fine; 
Swing, swing. 
Children swing, 
Swing and sing. 
Swing and sing. 



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Too wet it teas for' picking.'' 

— Page Twenty-four. 



SWING SONG Page Seventeen 

True 'tis a swing 
Of new design, 
Not like the swing 
That once was mine; 

Swing, swing, 

Children swing, 

Swing and sing, 

Swing and sing. 



Squirrels they swing 
On boughs of pine, 
And grapes they swing 
On ropes of vine; 
Swing, swing. 
Children swing. 
Swing and sing. 
Swing and sing. 



Orioles swing 
In nests they line 
With hair and string 
And raveled twine; 
Swing, swing, 
Children swing. 
Swing and sing. 
Swing and sing. 



Page Eighteen 



THE SURRENDER 



Fair lilies swing 
Like cones on pine, 
Bells swing and ring 
In steeples fine ; 
Swing, swing, 
Children swing. 
Swing and sing, 
Swing and sing. 

There's not a thing 
That is more fine 
Than just to swing 
Beneath the pine ; 
Swing, swing, 
Children swing, 
Swing and sing. 
Swing and sing. 



THE SURRENDER. 

But the children at last 
"Let the old cat die," 
And stopping the swing, 
They came with a cry, 
"Now write us a verse 
About Skip, the old dog, 



THE FOX SQUIRREL Page Nineteen 



Or make us a picture 
Of a squirrel or hog." 
"No, draw me my wagon," 
Pled Milton, with pout ; 
So how was the pastor 
To find his way out? 
He pictured the wagon 
In a wonderful way. 
And promised the girls 
That in verse, some day. 
He'd picture the squirrels. 
So, mobbed by the children 
In frolicksome glee, 
He yielded each point 
'Neath the old pine tree. 



THE FOX SQUIRREL. 

O the merry fox squirrel 

Lives up in a tree. 

And happy he is 

As happy can be; 

His coat it is sleek. 

His eyes they are bright. 
And he plays all the day 

And sleeps all the night. 



Page Twenty the fox squirrel 



He's a sly little rogue, 
And always on guard, 
Whether up in a tree. 
Or down in the yard ; 
At bark of a dog. 
Or bawl of a cow, 

Then he sits up to hear 

And see what's the row. 



He can run up a tree 
As easy and fast 
As sailors the ropes 
Run up to the mast ; 
From ends of the twigs, 
High up in the air. 

He can nip off the nut 
And eat it up there. 



For the little fox squirrel 
Is an acrobat. 
He jumps a broad jump. 
And never falls flat 
When swinging aloft 
On his leafy trapeze 

In the green forest tent 
Of glossy oak trees. 



THE FOX SQUIRREL Page Twenty-one 

And he's saucy sometimes. 

And sits on a rail 

And chatters and barks 

And waves his brush tail; 

Approach, and he's gone, 

With flourish and flash. 
Up a Cottonwood tree, 

An oak, or an ash. 



And a forager's life 

Is the life that he lives, 
He takes what he wants 
And nothing he gives ; 
With corn on the stalk. 
And nuts on the tree. 

In the field or the woods, 
He's equally free. 



As a matter of course, 
A squirrel like that 
By nature must be 
An aristocrat, 
His comp'ny select. 
His station be high 

As the finch and the jay 
And the oriole fly. 



Page Twenty-tzvo night 



So a villa he builds, 

For summer retreat, 
Where hammock'd in leaves 
He's shielded from heat ; 
His great ragged nest. 
Far out on a limb, 

You may see very plain. 
But can not see him. 

And his winter-time home 
Is castled high walls 
Of round-tower'd oak. 
Whose long crooked halls 
Are hollow old limbs — 
A safest retreat 

From his deadliest foes. 

From frost and from sleet. 



NIGHT. 

Hushed was the children's laughter. 
The day its course had run, 

The glow that followed after 
Was fading with the sun. 



NIGHT Page Tzventy-three 

The lengthening shadows blended, 

The forest seemed asleep, 
Peace like the dews descended, 

Stars lit the upper deep. 

From out the wood's abysses 

Hoarse hooted spectral owls; 
Old snags in ivy dresses 

Were monks in gowns and cowls. 

The air so soft and musky 

The wakeful senses dulled ; 
And Night, the nurse-maid dusky. 

To sleep the toilers lulled. 

And chastely veiled with tresses, 

Sweet Silence kissed them well ; 
And healed by her caresses. 

All burdens from them fell. 

And still the moon went sailing 

Far down the misty west. 
Till when the stars were paling 

Morn called the world from rest. 



Page Twenty-four morning at the mill 



MORNING AT THE MILL. 

Because it had been raining, 

One morning at the mill 

The graders were complaining, 

They couldn't work the fill ; 

In mud their wheels were sticking. 

Too wet it was for picking, 

They couldn't plow or spade, 

"Hadn't made 

Board, on grade." 

Came later on the farmers. 
In working garments plain. 
Discussed the strike at Armour's, 
And trusts, and loss, and gain ; 
Thought drouth would be a blessing, 
'Twould let them do their threshing. 
They'd "lose their seed and toil. 

Rent of soil. 

If shocks spoil." 

A hot and drouthy season 
Had passed the year before. 
And for that very reason 
The woods had suffered sore; 
The trees at top were dying. 
To save them men were trying, 
By bringing what would build. 

Of trees killed. 

To be milled. 



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"The mill was hut a Gypsy, 
A sort of iron tramp.'' 

— Page Twenty-five. 



MORNING AT THE MILL Page Twenty-five 

The mill was but a Gypsy, 

A sort of iron tramp, 

With smoke-stack tall and tipsy, 

'Twas hauled from camp to camp ; 

The roof on props was shaky, 

Between the slabs 'twas leaky. 

But where the saw-wheel played 

Striped shade 

The roof made. 

And then there was the sawyer, 
A stocky man was he, 
Could talk you like a lawyer, 
Or curse you if need be; 
Of cant-hook he was master, 
The saw none crowded faster, 
But kind was he, tho' rough. 

Strong and tough. 

Plain and bluff. 

Because the belt had parted 

The mill shut down a spell. 

The wagon-tank was started 

For water, to the well ; 

The belt, with strong whang-leather. 

The sawyer sewed together. 

And joined the talk and jest. 

Views expressed 

With the rest. 



Page Twenty-six the sawyer's story 



THE SAWYER'S STORY. 

"They talk 'bout farms and farmers, 
'Bout forren trade and free, 
'Bout Carnegies and Armours, 
And things folks hear and see. 
But, sir, there's no imployment 
That brings 'em sich in joy men t 
As sawin' of a tree 

Brings to me," 

Said Murphy. 

"These logs that I'm a sawin', 
They're good 'nough in their way — 
Don't understand I'm jawin' — 
They're telephone poles, I say. 
Side logs I've saw'd in Black-Hills, 
'Fore Gov'm't stopped the sawmills 
When pine-lands there was free; 

That broke me." 

Said Murphy. 

"In that there Black Hill pine-ry 
Couldn't die 'nless you was shot ; 
We didn't have much fine-ry. 
But health? — tough's a pine knot: 
Went down into Missoury, 
And shook with chills, like fury, — 
We'd lost our luck, you see. 

Wife and me," 

Said Murphy. 



THE SAWYER'S STORY Page Twcnty-seven 

Down there when I was haulin' 
Some straw, one winter day, 
My leg I broke in fallin' 
When mules was runnin' way : 
My boy, a mad dog bit him. 
Mad-stone I had to git him, — 
'Twas mighty hard on me. 

Elder, see?" 

Said Murphy. 

"Ask how he got that bitin'? 
Well sir, by our bull pup; 
Saloon man had 'im fightin'. 
Dog's mad, chaws feller up. 
Then runs with chain a slappin', 
Tin tub hooks on, goes flappin' — 
The blamedest time, by gee, 

Y'ever see," 

Said Murphy. 

"But still I ain't complainin'; 
If I can git the logs, 
And it will stop a rainin'. 
We'll set them iron dogs. 
And whirl the saw a screamin* 
And tearin' like a demon. 
Till every log you see 

Boards 'ill be," 

Said Murphy. 



Page Twenty-eight man and nature 



To words he fitted actions; 
The saw began to scream 
And slice the log to fractions, 
In stud, and board, and beam; 
The pitman it was pumping, 
The engine it was jumping. 
Flew sawdust in the air, — 

Hurry there. 

Everywhere. 

Bear off the fresh sawed lumber. 
And pile the slabs aside, 
Write on the slate the number, 
Count up at eventide; 
Like mingled gold and fire. 
Heap up the sawdust higher, 
And when shall fade the day 

Haste away 

Get your pay. 



MAN AND NATURE. 

Great man's great slave is the iron mill. 
The man-made serf of the human will ; 
From rock and flame it was summoned forth. 
To work for man who redeems the earth; 
For woods but wilderness is, alone, 



THE FRONTIERSMAN Page Twenty-fiine 



Where logs and snags are with brush o'er 

grown ; 
And mountains solemn, and stern, and cold 
Are heaps of rocks over mines of gold ; 
And streams and rivers but ditches are, 
Till man lays tribute upon their power; 
For always, in her work and plan, 
Does Nature loiter still for man; 
Her life is wild, her aspect drear, 
Till comes at last the pioneer. 



THE FRONTIERSMAN. 

The subject of this poem, Mr. Aristarchus Gone, 
came from Connecticut to Iowa in 1837 and was the 
original owner of the Edgewood Farm. A remnant of 
his old caMn still stands where he huilt it. The ''Rel- 
ics" described in another poem were given by him 
to Mr. William 8. Hunter who still has them in his 
possession. The ''Frontiersman,'' written a number of 
years ago when Mr. Cone was still living, was by re- 
uuest read at his funeral, which was attended by an 
immense concourse of people, and ivas conducted in 
the dooryard under the old pines that his own hands 
had planted. 

How oft' we saw the "Uncle," 

With hair as white as snow. 
Walk out along the yard-way 

With trembling steps and slow. 

He, from old Connecticut, 

Had come in early days; 
The West was Indian peopled. 

And trails the only ways. 



Page Thirty the frontiersman 



With heart for great adventure, 

He left his kin behind, 
And rivers crossed, and prairies, 

A home-land new to find. 

He came a foot-sore pilgrim, 

His bundle in his hand, 
No white men dwelt beyond him 

To far Pacific land. 

With bark beneath for bedding. 

When wolves were howling round, 

In buffalo robe he wrapped him. 
And slept upon the ground. 

Just in the edge of timber, 

Where woods and prairie met, 

When close at hand was winter. 
His cabin stakes he set. 

To flimsy tent had followed 

A rail pen thatched with hay; 

A spark set fire and burned it 
One chill November day. 

A snow came with the darkness — 
He stretched again his tent. 

And ate his roast potatoes, 
As o'er the fire he bent. 



THE FRONTIERSMAN Page Thirty-one 



A yoke of strong-necked oxen 

A fellow settler brought; 
With these, in snowy timber, 

The houseless workers wrought. 

They dragged the logs together, 
They split the boards apart. 

And slowly built their cabin, 
With rude and frontier art. 

And when 'twas roofed with clapboards. 
Within the hut they came. 

And baked their coarse corndodgers 
In fire-place coals and flame. 

The summer brought the ague. 
With fever-flush between; 

Mosquitoes swarmed, and Indians, 
In woods and on the stream. 

But came and went the seasons, 
And better days came too ; 

The ox-plow broke the prairie, 
The settlers' number grew 

A State, a noble fabric. 

From wilderness arose; 
The State may live forever, 

But he who builds it goes. 



Page Thirty-two 



THE PASSING OF THE CABIN 



So, 'neath the pines he planted, 

Walked forth the frontier man; 

New dwelling stood behind him. 
Old cabin stood in van. 

With light the sunbeams crowned him, 
Birds cooed or else did sing. 

The squirrels leaped around him, 
And all proclaimed him king. 



THE PASSING OF THE CABIN. 

The little log cabin 

In the edge of the wood 
Stands lone and forsaken 

Thro' sunshine and flood. 

The oaks throw their shadows. 

And the cottonwoods too. 
Upon the old roof-boards, 

And rains filter through. 

The fox-squirrel climbs o'er it. 
And he gnaws there his nut; 

There oft the quail perches. 
And whistles his note. 



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•A s/ieZZ ^Ttafs Ze/i stranded, 
By an outgoing tide:' 

—Page Thirty-three 



THE PASSING OF THE CABIN Page Thirty-three 



There saucy woodpeckers 

With their hammers o£t beat 

On logs old and wormy, 
Then crow and retreat. 

The window is boarded, 

And the chinking drops out; 

Nailed up is the fireplace. 
And weeds grow about. 

The door with its latch-string 
From its wood-hinge is torn, 

On hinges of metal 
Another is borne. 

Near by is a railway, 

And behind is a road; 

But fronts to the forest 
This hut of the wood. 

The cabin is haunted. 

But be free of your fears, 

'Tis haunted with visions 
Of brave pioneers. 

Draw near this log temple. 
Open softly its door; 

Hang wasp-nests above you. 
Old traps crowd the floor. 

A shell that's left stranded 
By an outgoing tide. 

Stands mutely the cabin 
The clearing beside. 



Page Thirty -four the relics 



Without and within it 

Are the marks of decay 

The hut, like its master, 
Is passing away. 

The rays of the morning 
The woods veil away. 

But sunset glows o'er it 
At close of the day. 



THE RELICS. 

Your kindness, my Friend, is o'erv/helming, 
Each day has disclosed a surprise. 

Your welcome is wide as your meadows, 
Your character pure as the skies; 

You've feasted my heart and my body. 
And now you are feasting my eyes. 

I thank you for showing these relics. 
But what is the story, I pray. 

That they would now herald or whisper 
If each could but have its own say? 

Please tell me, my Friend, if you know it. 
Tomorrow I'm going away. 

'Twas thus that the pastor had spoken. 

And back in its silvery shell 
He slowly had pushed the old dagger. 

And asked of his host that he tell 
Of it, and the gun, and the pistols. 

The pov/derhorn story as well. 



THE RELICS Page Thirty-five 



Then modestly answered the farmer, 
Hints only have come down to me 

Inwoven with fact and with fancy, 
And one from the other, you see. 

Thro' haze of the years that have vanished, 
No critic can possibly free. 

These heirlooms belonged to the Uncle, 
This rifle — an old-fashioned gun. 

Oft spoke from his shoulder in forest. 
And turkey and deer more than one 

He brought to the now crumbling cabin 
When hunt and the daylight were done. 

On old wooden hooks in the cabin. 
O'er fireplace or over the door. 

It rested, a sturdy old homeguard 

Of loft, and of fireplace and floor ; 

By wolf and by Indian respected. 

It spoke what it meant, and no more. 

And oft with this gun on my shoulder 

I've roamed thro' the gloom of the wood; 

With spell of the forest upon me 

I followed the crooked creek flood — 

But that was in years of my boyhood. 

When woods were unmarked by a road. 

The powderhorn, look at its carvings! 

It used to hang close to the side 
Of the old Revolutionary rifle 

As clings to the bridegroom his bride, — 
A beautiful partner, though silent, 

A helpmeet in perils that tried. 



Page Thirty-six the relics 



And now read its date and its pictures — 
There graved is the Liberty Tree, 

And there is the bridge of the Concord, 
Revere riding o'er it — 'tis he. 

In harbor the war-ships are looming— 
All these on the powderhorn see. 

And here is the bow and the arrow. 
The tomahawk, musket, and sword, 

A new moon in crescent is shining. 

And "Liberty or Death" is the word. 

In "seventeen, five and seventy," graven. 
For "Ackley," by Liberty stirred. 

But he who engraved and inscribed it 
In years that are distant far back. 

Has cut on wood butt of this relic, 

(That honor his name should not lack) 

"November twenty-first, at Roxbury, 

This horn it was carved by Hez' Mack." 

The pistols that lie here before us 
Are beautiful, curious, and grim, 

Their triggers fold up like a clasp-knife. 
Their graving is graceful but dim ; 

Unscrew the short barrels, 'tis easy. 

Their bullets pierced bosom and limb. 

A boy, I once questioned the Uncle, 
Who gave me a sort of rebuff; 

He said he bequeathed me the heirlooms. 
Of pistols and dagger he was gruff; 

To know they are old and are sacred, 
For me, he declared, was enough. 



THE RELICS Page Thirty-seven 



The sheath of the dagger is silver, 

The hilt, now of bone, was once pearl; 

'Tis said 'twas a lady's keen weapon. 
And worn by daughter of an Earl ; 

That stud on the sheath is the button 
That held it 'neath vest of the girl. 

But further than this I know nothing, 
'Tis hinted that tragedy and love 

Once called to their service the weapons — 
A duel for a Thrush or a Dove, 

The lady's heart stabbed with her dagger, — 
The Truth only God knows, Above. 



Page Thirty-eight finale and farewell 



FINALE AND FAREWELL. 

Such are the pictures in rude rhyme, 

From three short weeks in summer time ; 

The pastor wrote them day by day ; 

And night before he went away 

The genial farmer and his wife 

Made children hush their merry strife ; 

An invitation had they sent 

To some who came from Grader's Tent; 

And matron-nurse, and cousins all. 

On couch and chairs sat round the wall; 

All listened while the lines were read. 

Then talked, and laughed, and goodbye said, 

And started home, or went to bed. 



When lit the Morn her altar flame, 
Back to the town the pastor came ; 
But still those days will echo long. 
Like strains of faint receding song. 
And often will their visions rise, 
Like angels sent from Paradise. 



THE TRAPPER AND HIS TRAPS Page Thirty-nine 

Poems of Back Country Wisdom 
and Local Attachment 

THE TRAPPER AND HIS TRAPS. 

Old 'Lija Boon's a hunter-man 

Who lives within the woods, 

His hut of logs, built frontier plan, 

Is bare of household goods, 

A block of log set up on end 

He uses for a chair, 

Cuts strips of hide his clothes to mend. 

And never combs his hair. 

Old 'Lija Boon don't work like me, 

A farmer with my plow. 

But 'Lija knows 'bout every tree, 

And there's no man, I 'low. 

Knows when an' where the squirrels pla>. 

Or where to find a coon. 

In drizzly night, or sunny day. 

So well as 'Lija Boon. 

Old 'Lija Boon's a fisher-man 

Down by the river side, 

If he can't ketch, no feller can, 

I've seed them when they tried; 

They'd drop their hooks right in his spot 

And not a fish would bite. 

But 'Lija's cork right under shot 

'N'e'd land his fish all right. 



Page Forty the trapper and his traps 



Old 'Lija Boon don't shoot to fail, 

He wings the flying duck, 

And does the same with snipe and quail, — 

He's never out of luck; 

He shoots the rabbit as it leaps. 

When snow is on the ground. 

And muskrats where the river sleeps 

Fast in his traps are found. 

Old 'Lija Boon is mighty slick 

In ketchin' turkeys, too, 

Them birds is shy and hard to trick, 

But 'Lij knows what to do; 

He digs a trench beneath the rail 

At bottom of a pen. 

Strews corn an' crums, an' — head an' tail — 

Them birds go pickin' in. 

Old 'Lija Boon he's got 'em then 

Where they will not git out. 

They stretch their necks in that high pen, 

An' chirp an' prance about; 

An' since they hold their heads so high, 

Just like some people do. 

An' won't stoop down, an' can not fly, 

Them turkeys don't git thro. 

Old 'Lija Boon he seems to me 

An ally-gory man. 

For when I look I'm sure to see 

Things workin' on his plan ; 

For some is hunters on this ball. 

An' some is fast in traps. 

Some swallow down the hook and all. 

Some's caught by pickin' scraps. 




"'For always, in her work and plan. 
Does Nature loiter still for man.'' 

Page Twenty-nine. 



THE TRAPPER AND HIS TRAPS Page Forty-one 



Of 'Lija Boon I always think 
When walkin' thro the towns, 
I see young swells, who swear an' drink, 
Upon their pleasure rouns; 
Sometimes I look in where they play 
With "chips,"' an "cards," and "craps," 
An' to myself I always say, 
"Young turkeys in the traps." 

Of 'Lija Boon I think agin 

When sittin' in the court 

I see 'em bring the pris'ner in 

Where witnesses report; 

And as the guilt comes out so plain 

An' draws the halter-wrap, 

I say it with a chokin' pain, 

"That turkey's in a trap." 

Old 'Lija Boon comes to my mind 

When Counts in search of game 

Come here a Yankee girl to find 

Who'll buy a title-name; 

And when the Count has got the right 

To hold her on his lap, 

I say in shame, and not in spite, 

"Nother turkey in a trap." 

Old 'Lija Boon flits like a ghost 

And hants most every place. 

He lures by words, he traps by post, 

Compels, or wins with grace ; 

Sometimes he baits with golden bricks, 

Or as promoter saps. 

But each an' all his several tricks 

Get turkeys into traps. 



Page Forty-two too far a \n a y 



But yet I v/ish that 'Lija Boon 

Could like a spirrit go 

An' cross the ocean, mighty soon, 

An' stir them Powers so 

They'd git this world from Sultan free. 

By peace, or by a scrap, 

For he's a Turk I'd like to see 

Fast in a Turkey trap. 



TOO FAR AWAY. 

[Suggested by an incident related before 
an Iowa Teachers' Association, by Prof. W. W. 
Stetson, at that time State Superintendent of 
Public Instruction in Maine.] 

To the mountains and the Torest, 

Way up in northern Maine, 
There the sport, the snob and tourist 

All go intent to gain 
Mountain, lake, or pine-wood pleasure. 

And camp where night and day 
Nature guards her boundless treasure, 

So far from town away. 

When the magnate sits a scheming. 

And the banker's at his till. 
And the city streets are teeming. 

So hot that they will kill. 
Then the magnate and the banker 

Their work aside they lay. 
When their hearts begin to hanker 

For Maine so far away. 



TOO FAR AWAY Page Forty-three 



For the millionaire and broker, 

Their purse is never small, 
And they leave behind the stoker 

And working people all. 
And to Mount Katahdin hying, 

They rest or else they play, 
While the toilers, they are frying 

In cities far away. 

But the men from town and palaces, 

Who go to hunt and fish. 
Of the guide with belt for gallowses 

Must ask to have their wish ; 
Where the wolf and bear have houses 

The townsmen can not say, 
Nor of moose whereat he browses, — 

The town's too far away. 

From New York a Moneypocket, 

Both weasel-faced and brow'd, 
Came and sputtered, like a rocket. 

Of city sports and crowd. 
Till the guide, to quench this folly. 

In native scorn did say, 
"Health and sport are HERE, b'golly— 

You live too far away." 

Often when I look around me, 

In country or in town, 
Poverty and pride confound me 

With scenes that break me down ; 
Tragic things with comic falling, 

Because, by night and day. 
Pleasure's camp from home and calling 

Is pitched too far away. 



Page Forty-four 



TOO FAR fK\N A\ 



In the Church the Rev. Brassy 

Can't get the people's ear, 
To the Sunday School Miss Massy 

Can't get the children near ; 
Wonder if the good Saint Peter, 

That ancient guide, would say, 
"Nearer get to Christ, be sweeter. 

You live too far away." 

With the bat or with the racket. 

If you would like to win. 
Hit the out-curve ball and crack it. 

Bring men on bases in. 
To the block get close, old fellow. 

And hit, and win the day ; 
You can make the bleachers bellow- 

Don't stand too far away. 

If you find the years are fleeing, 

And you are left alone. 
And you feel within your being 

Your heart weigh like a stone. 
Don't you skulk outside the clearing. 

But just go in and say 
What Priscilla would be hearing — 

Don't sit too far away. 

If you're working or if playing. 

In Florida or Maine, 
Making love or else are praying. 

You can not hope to gain 
Help of woman, God, or Nature, 

Or hold a job a day. 
Bag a bear, or legislature, 

And live too far away. 



SAINT SALOON Page Forty-five 



SAINT SALOON. 

[These verses were written for the conclusion of a 
temperance sermon delivered at Muscatine, Iowa. The 
City, it is only fair to say, has recently thrown off the 
yoke of the saloon.] 



In ages past, as we are told, 
Some patron saint, or spirit bold. 
O'er land and town, o'er tent and shack, 
O'er sea and shore and forest black. 
Stretched forth a wand of magic power 
To interdict the evil hour; 
And some will think the omen ill 
Where saint nor spirit watches still. 

The story old of Paradise 

No picture is that tells us lies. 

For still the seraph speaks us well, 

And still the serpent offers hell, 

And still his iridescent coil 

Is prelude to the serpent's toil ; 

Choose saint or serpent — which you will — 

Spirit of Heaven, or of the still. 

With teeth of wolf and claw of cat. 
With eye of lynx and wing of bat, 
O'er court, press, mayor, mart and hut. 
His black shade casts the god of glut ; 
'Tis much the same— West Hill, South 

Flat— 
Our city god is still the bat; 
Have schools, clubs, churches— what you 

will. 
Saloon's our god and patron still. 



Page Forty-six 



KANSAS 



Proud dames we have and in high station, 
But then we lack a Carrie Nation ; 
We've men of wealth, and men of power. 
But lack a hero for the hour; 
We lick the feet of our corrupters. 
Make cop and council their supporters, 
And kneel beneath the brutish will 
Of Saint Saloon, our devil still. 



KANSAS. 

You're from Boston, so you say; 
Well, that burg is far away, 
And the people, fur most part, 
Livin' there are mighty smart; 
But you think that folks out here 
Look and talk and act so queer. 

And you think the climate's dry, 
And you say you wonder why 
Kansas winds must always blow. 
And you'd give a lot to know 
Why the people still will come 
Way out here to find a home. 

And you're sure that Berkshire hills, 
Yankee colleges and mills, 
Old South Church and Fan'el Hall, 
Statehouse old, and sich things all. 
Scattered there and all around. 
No place else on airth are found. 



KANSAS Page Forty-seven 



Well, my Friend, I'll say right now, 
Reckon that I must allow 
All you claim and maybe more, 
But one thing is mighty shore, 
We've got things away out West 
That will cap your very best. 

You've had men was glorious great, 
We've had some here in our State, 
Ingalls, now, that there John J., 
He was hard to match, they say, 
Thatchers, two — and then, again 
Once we had that there Jim Lane. 

I could tell of many more. 

Call 'em over by the score; 

W'y, my Friend, you know John Brown 

From Connecticut came down — 

Had to come out here to train, 

And, Sir, he was not insane. 

No, Sir! no, they ain't all dead. 
Some are bulgin' right ahead, 
Climbin' up the road to Fame, 
Shinin' like a mount of flame; 
Brewer,* Funston, Ware and White, 
Sheldon, too— ain't they all right? 

Hain't much learnin', you can see — 
Kansas folks ain't all like me — 
Learnin's dear to Kansas' heart. 
Lands and tax she's set apart. 
She's got colleges and schools, 
She's not raisin' crops of fools. 



*The great jurist was living at the time these 
verses were written. 



Page Forty-eight 



KANSAS 



Kansas folks know how to fight, 
In the end they git things right; 
Carrie Nation and St. John 
Pushed the temp'rance chariot on, 
To it Kansas hitched her law- 
Noblest fight you ever saw. 



Kansas folks is hard to foil, 
Even by the Standard Oil; 
And the very Kansas hen 
Helped to down the mor'gage men; 
And all over Kansas State 
Folks is growin' rich and great. 



Yes, New England's got us beat — 
In baked beans, but not in wheat; 
Boston has her Bunker Hill, 
I'm not speakin' of it ill; 
Lawrence has Mount Oread, 
Risin' where her martyrs bled. 



So, my Friend, here in the West, 
We've got all to make us blest, 
Hist'ry, soil and sunshine too. 
Breezes, rains, and sparklin' dev7. 
Churches, schools where'er we roam — 
Where on airth's a better home? 




"0/ mist-veiled shores and depths where lie 
Deep shades abysmal thoughts denoting.'' 

—Page Seventy-five. 



PANK, OR THE DOG AND THE RAM Page Forty-niue 



PANK; OR THE DOG AND THE RAM. 

This poem originally appeared in the Muscatine 
Neios-Tribune. It tvas preceded hy an explanatory 
editorial note which is here reproduced in abridged 
form. 

"Rev. John Ballantine. a learned Harvard divine, 
(whose ivife ivas Mary Gay, a great grand daughtsr 
of Governor Wintrop) served as pastor of the Con- 
gregational Church at Westfield. Mass., from 1740 to 
1776, a period of thirty-five years. One of their sons, 
Ehenezer, was ''surgeon's mate" commissioned by 
John Hancock, and is grandfather of Dr. G. 0. Morg- 
ridge* of this city. Another son was known as ''Mas- 
ter John'* to distinguish him from his father. He tvas 
never married, hut was a man of great learning ec- 
centric, educated for the ministry, yet never had a 
"call,'' although he preached often for his father. A 
Westfield Bi-Centennial volume relates the story of 
Master John and his little dog Pank. The dog, which 
his master dearly loved, had the habit of running 
sheep. Master John wished to cure him of it. So he 
applied to the "smolaker" for advice, and ivas victim- 
ized, as is shown in the lines which folloio.'' 

'^Similia similibus curantur'' 

Since Bobby Burns and Walter Scott, 
And Coleridge, dear to Muse and Fame> 
(Like other poets I might name) 
For mouse and deer and albatross 
To weave a verse have scrupled not. 
Let now the critic not look cross, 
Nor pelt, as school boys do a frog. 
This warbling record of a dog. 

"^Now deceased. 



Page Fifty rank, or the dog and the ram 



A dog there was in Yankeedom, 
The vassal of a Puritan 
Who was a lordly sort of man, 
And knew his Bible and was great 
In many ways, and queer in some. 
And lived his life in bachelor-state. 
But loved his dog — a little one. 
As fathers, sometimes, love a son. 

This great man's name was Ballantine; 
His dog's, the record says, was Pank, 
Who ne'er with saintly dogs would rank; 
Wrapped in his hide a coyote heart 
Did him to running sheep incline. 
And Ballantine could find no art 
To counteract the mutton lure, 
Pank's wolfy sport to stay or cure. 

John Ballantine, that godly man, 

Pank's escapades did sorely vex 

And did him more and more perplex. 

Until this man of learned lore 

Resolved upon a conference plan 

With him who made the shoes John wore, 

For cobbler Douglass more could do 

Than vvax a thread or peg a shoe. 

So to the shop went Ballantine 

And to the cobbler made his wail. 

And of his dog he told the tale. 

And asked the driver of the awl 

If he could furnish any line — 

(Of treatment), such as might recall 

From sheep the dog, and be his cure; 

To which the cobbler answered, "Sure." 



PANK. OR THE DOG AND THE RAM Page Fifty-ofie 



And now behold the scheme worked out 
According to the cobbler's plan, 
Which in such sort as this began; 
And first they brought the guilty Pank, 
And to his collar, good and stout, 
A rope they tied from which he shrank, 
And then a ram the cobbler brought 
Which for this purpose he had caught. 

Now 'round each corkscrew crinkled horn 
Of that big captive wooly ram. 
Dragged from the fold, from ewe and lamb, 
Pank's rope one end the cobbler ties; 
And now across the field is borne 
That luckless dog, as onward hies 
That set-free ram with quickened bounds, 
Pank pulling back with yelping sounds. 

You would have danced like mirthful clowns, 
Could you have seen the cobbler shake 
His leather apron so to make 
The terror greater for that sheep 
And drive him swifter to the bounds ; 
You still would laugh till you must weep, 
As ran the ram with blat and bleat, 
Compelling Pank's unwilling feet. 

But race so swift must quick have end, 
And so the ram soon reached the fence, 
Still tagged with tugging Pank, and hence 
He leaped in fright that barrier o'er. 
And as he did outside descend, 
The dog still roped, as said before. 
Was jerked against the upper rail 
And hung, and died without a wail. 



Page Fifty-two humboldt town 



Moral. 

O, Aesop, could you this have known, 

What moral might your pen have writ; 

Or had you, Shakespeare, but seen it, 

What drama great, mankind to strike. 

From Pank's poor tale might then have grown ; 

For Pank and people are alike; 

We chase for sins as dogs for lambs. 

And find at last we're tied to rams. 



HUMBOLDT TOWN. 

I'm no agent, no Sir, no, 
Got no land I want to sell. 
But I saw you lookin' roun' 
Like you's huntin' where to go. 
And I know this country well, 
And I know this Humboldt Town. 

I'm not much at tellin' yarns. 
Like a terrapin I crawl 
'Long the level solid groun' ; 
I can tell you who has barns. 
Who is farmin' big or small, — 
If they live near Humboldt Town. 

I've seen some of this earth-ball. 

Been from Maine to Minnesoty, ' 

Strolled in Canady aroun' 

And looked over South Dakoty, 

I have seen them places all 

And come back to Humboldt Town. 



HUMBOLDT TOWN Page Fifty-three 



Well, now since you ask, I'll say 
We've got churches stone and wood, 
Schools as good as can be foun', 
Reckon all our folks don't pray, 
But we know sich things is good. 
Good for us in Humboldt Town. 

Furthermore, I'd like to say. 
When Carnaygie made his bluff, 
Couldn't vote that book-house down, 
So it went the other way. 
And they called him quick enough, — 
Took that in for Humboldt Town. 

"Ponds!" Well, yes, your right 'bout that. 
But we call 'em lakes, you see. 
And the v/ust we're drainin' down. 
Spoils the home of duck and rat. 
Hunter's sport that used to be 
For the men of Humboldt Town. 



California? Yes, that's so — 
Land of sunshine, flov/ers and dust; 
Folks have gone there and have foun' 
Warmth at noon, but now they know 
Sea-damp chills the very wust, — 
Bad as cold in Humboldt Town. 



We've got lakes but got no bogs. 

Got a college on the hill, 

Got a river bendin' roun', 

Got fine cattle, sheep and hogs. 

Got a bridge, and dam and mill, 

Woods and bluffs, near Humboldt Town. 



Page Fifty-four hum bolt town 



Got a cream'ry plant dov/n there, 

Got a poultry packin'-ranch, 

Got cement works, best I've £oun' — 

I'm not givin' you hot air — 

Banks and stores are good and stanch,- 

Got them all in Humboldt Town. 



"Folks," you say, "mean more than these,' 
And in that you're right agin; 
Yet, with herds, and on good groun', 
Men and women grow like trees, 
Nature's gifts are subsoiled in, — 
Manhood grows in Humboldt Town. 

And the ladies! Well now, say, 
I'm no singin' truebydoor. 
But no woman with a crown, 
Shakespeare wrote of in his day. 
Was a queen a thimble more 
Than the ones in Humboldt Town. 

No, Sir, no, we've no saloon. 

But there's some as ship it in, 

Do it sneakin' as a houn'. 

But we hope they'll stop it soon, 

'Cause its just as mean as sin, 

Smugglin' drinks in Humboldt Town. 

Mostly, tho' we're sober here, 
"Father" works as others do. 
And we're busy all year roun' ; 
But we stop for Christmas cheer. 
Fair and Fourth, Thanksgiving, too^ — 
Hard to beat this Humboldt Town. 



LABOR DAY Page Fifty- five 



LABOR DAY.* 

The Lords of toil ! — v/ith blare and blast 

Along the crowded street they passed ; 

I viewed their banners carried high, 

And heard the drums, the shout, the cry; 

I saw them pass, like and unlike. 

On foot and float, barouche and bike, 

Men skilled to shoe with steel the steed, 

And men who deal in flour and feed. 

Makers of brooms to sweep before 

Your own, or else your neighbor's door, 

Men deft to roll cigars for folk 

Who soothe, or curse, the vv'orld with smoke, 

Masters of plane and saw and level. 

And printers led by printer's devil, 

Mechanics, brewers, and boxmakers, 

Bricklayer-men and undertakers. 

Ice wagons trimmed in tissue papers. 

Trick-wheelmen cutting foolish capers, 

A squad of pony cavalry, 

And clowns in roguish revelry. 

And button cutters with their shell. 

Within whose spacious pearly cell 

A goddess stood to crown as king 

All who fraternal service bring. 



March on, march on, ye lords of toil. 
Naught can your peaceful weapons foil; 
In shop or store, on ship or soil. 
Ye bend all things unto your will; 



^Written after viewing the Lalor Day parade at 
Muscatine, Iowa, September 2, 1901. 



Page Fifty-six wayne. fair wayne 



Than Hercules you're stronger still, 
And more than Phidias in skill. 
With games and jest and merriment 
'Tis v/ell part of the day be spent, 
For God has also laughter sent: 
In springs of pleasure, cool and clear. 
Toil dips his goblet without fear, — 
But shun the brothel, cards, and beer; 
For sober work and temp'rate play 
Shall bring to earth a brighter day. 
And Red Sea waves shall part away, 
And toil, redeemed, shall march in state, 
Invention make us rich and great, 
'Til we be EMPERORS OF FATE. 



WAYNE, FAIR WAYNE. 

The folloiving ode was loritten for the Wayne County 
Centennial CeleljratiQn, held at Richmond, Indiana, Octo- 
ber 7, 1910. The accompanying quotation from the Rich- 
mond Palladium describes the occasion, and may serve as 
an introduction to the poem. 

The Palladium said: ''Wayne, Fair Wayne," is the title 
of the only song which has 'been composed in honor of the 
county, and it has hn^en adopted by the Fall Festival Asso- 
ciation as the county anthem. It will be sung by a chorus 
of school children while riding on a mammoth float during 
the parade on Centennial Day and at the exercises tvhich 
will be held at the East Main Street Friends' church lawn 
in the afternoon. The audience will be permitted to join 
in the singing. 




'Where Mississippi pours his flood 
Along a widening course." 



- Pagre Seventy-six. 



WAYNE. FAIR WAYNE Po.9<-^ Fifty-SCVCU 

''The author, now of Humboldt, loiva, is a native of 
V/ayne county and was affiliated with its early school and 
religious history. The words have heen set to music l)y 
Prof. Henry Kampe and the chorus of school children who 
will render the song are under his direction. They will he 
seated on a float forty feet long and twenty-four feet wide. 
It will he the largest float in the parade and will proh- 
ahly hold a hundred children. At Fifteenth and Main streets 
it will he placed in front of the Friends' church and used 
as a stage.'' 



A century of years, 

Of human hopes and fears, 

And back we turn our faces 
And view the path that traces 
A Mother's life whose graces 
Abide the years unfaded. 
By nothing base degraded — 
Her name prolong. 
And laud it in our song. 



O 'tis a noble name 
Forever dear to Fame, 

And twenty counties bear it; 
But yet, of all who share it, 
Do none so queenly wear it 
As she the Hoosier daughter 
By the smiling White-water, 
She wears the name 
Forever dear to Fame. 



Page Fifty-eight WAYNE, FAIR WAYNE 



CHORUS. 

Then Hail, all Hail, 

We sound it loud and long, 
With music nozv we blend it, 
Upon the breeze zve send it; 
'Tis Wayne, fair Wayne, 

The glory of our song. 



Her sons, the good and great, 
Are known in every State, 

Her Morton and her Wallace 
Drank wisdom from her chalice. 
In cottage and in palace 
She reared to bless the ages 
Her soldiers and her sages — 

Did Wayne, fair Wayne, 
The glory of our song. 

The Old she fashioned new 
The Present from it grew; 

The trail and then the byway. 
Canal and graveled highway. 
Then auto, train, and fly-away. 
And trolley coaches going. 
And tides of commerce flowing, 

For Wayne, new Wayne, 
The glory of our song. 

CHORUS. 



WAYNE, FAIR WAYNE Page Fifty-nine 



With clear and loving eyes 
She sees her temples rise, 

And to her halls of learning, 
With noble purpose yearning. 
She sees her children turning, 
And Wisdom, joined to Duty, 
Adorns them all with beauty — 
The pride of Wayne, 
The glory of our song. 



Gone are the bear and deer, 
And gone her pioneer; 

No cabin in the clearing. 
No savage 'round it peering. 
No woodman nothing fearing, 
But O, her deeds are deathless. 
We read the story breathless 

Of Wayne, old Wayne, 
The glory of our song. 



CHORUS, 



From savage war at rest, 
Now on her ample breast 

The Quaker and the Overman, 
The merchant and the yeoman, 
Mechanic and the plowman. 
Are each to each a brother 
And love her as a mother — 

Love Wayne, dear Wayne, 
The glory of our song. 



Page Sixty wayne, fair wayne 



Her Matrons and the Maid, 
And Man and Youth have paid, 
With passionate emotion, 
Full measure of devotion; 
Nor mountain, plain, nor ocean, 
Where e'er her children wander. 
Can break the bond asunder 

That binds to Wayne, 
The glory of our song. 

CHORUS. 

Her pioneers are dust, 
Who dared to do and trust, 

Her aged sires and mothers. 
Her patriots and brothers. 
Shall go as went the others. 
But She, till graves are riven. 
Shall seem an earthly Heaven 
To us of Wayne, 
The glory of our song. 



With nothing to upbraid. 
Her glory can not fade ; 

The past is great behind her. 
Her trials have refined her, 
No wrong shall ever bind her. 
Her children shall caress her 
And smiles of Heaven bless her, 

Bless Wayne, good Wayne, 
The glory of our song. 



CHORUS. 



SPRING Page Sixty-one 

Season - Scenes and Sentiments 

SPRING. 



Every season has its story, 
Every month a splendor shows, 
In the winter hills are hoary. 
And in June the color glows, 
And upon the bending branches 
Autumn apples blushing swing. 
Yet are all the stately seasons 
Vassals of the queenly Spring. 

And before her and beside her 
Fly the robin and the jay. 
Gone the winter that defied her. 
Come the show'rs and flow'rs of May, 
Fish within the streams are finning. 
Birds are in the air a-wing. 
Nature's life, in cycles planning, 
Wakes with coming of the Spring. 

Lo, she comes in beauty glowing, 
Priestess of the earth and air ; 
Prophecies in breezes blowing, 
Hope in blossom everywhere ; 
Pocahontas-like, in pity 
For each mute imprisoned thing. 
Comes the woodland maiden spirit, 
Veiled with draperies of Spring. 



Paqe Sixty -two sickle and song 



Ever mystically speaking 
In her native woodland lore, 
Comes she seeking, ever seeking 
To entice us out of door, 
There to heal our jaded feelings 
Of the woes that to us bring 
Winter-hearted melancholy. 
Till we feel the breath of Spring. 



SUMMER. 



SICKLE AND SONG. 

[Suggested 'by Jules Breton's picture, ''Song of the 
Lark.''] 



With rustic garb and open face, 
In peasant strength and native grace, 
There comes a maid in early morn, 
And o'er the fields all even shorn, 
Her song rings out, as mounting high 
His song the lark sings in the sky. 

With rosy face the rising sun 
His daily race has just begun, 
His glowing disk lights up the domes 
Of orchard trees, and roofs of homes, 
And shows 'neath lashes dark and long, 
Her dusky eyes, pure as her song. 



SICKLE AND SONG Pacjc Sixty-thvce 



Bound with a kerchief is her hair, 
And tanned her face is with the glare 
Of Summer's sun whose ardent art 
Embrowns the face, but spares the heart — 
The virgin heart from which there rise 
Such notes as float from Paradise. 

The dew is yet upon the grass 
Where o'er the footpath she must pass, 
Her feet are bare, her bosom shows 
Above her chastely simple clothes. 
From open lips as red as morn 
Her reaping-song is blithely borne. 

Her dress of blue, from wear and dirt, 

Is tucked up o'er a home-made skirt ; 

Behind her, not too distant back. 

Green fields and grove, cot, spire and stack; 

And with her sickle and her song 

Like Ruth she toileth all day long. 

But, Ah ! sweet maid, deep in my tho't 
I read the pathos of thy lot, — 
Of woman thou hast face and form 
But hast, Alas! man's naked arm; 
Where'er thy heart thy song-verse leads, 
There's something in thy face that pleads. 

And yet, and yet, in thee I see 
All pictured true what life should be. 
Though mean thy garb and hard thy part, 
Yet thou hast learned life's hidden art. 
For toil and task will make us strong 
If faced with sickle and with song. 



Page Sixty-four moonlight 



MOONLIGHT. 

[A mid-Summer night meditation^ written July, 
1877, in the country edge of Dayton, Ohio.] 



When the western lights slowly fade away, 
And the mantle falls of the twilight gray. 
And the rising moon shoots the red'ning ray. 
And the fireflies dance in the air at play, 
And the stars look down from the milky way. 
Sweet it is to muse at the close of day. 

When the bird has flown to its downy nest, 
And the toad leaps forth of its food in quest. 
And the reapers go to their homes to rest, 
Then the forms of those that we love the best, 
Whether yet on earth or among the blest, 
Seem to hover 'round in their beauty drest. 

When the rabbit leaps from the ripened wheat, 
And the owl flies forth from his hidden seat, 
And the noise is hushed of the busy street. 
And the maid steals forth her betrothed to 

meet. 
And the cricket chirps in its dark retreat. 
Then the soul goes forth in communion sweet. 

When the world-cares rest that in daylight 

strove. 
Then how sweet to roam thro' the moon-lit 

grove, 
With the dew beneath and the boughs above. 
Or beside some brook seek a flowery cove. 
There to yield the heart to the brooding 

"Dove," 
And to feel o'ersouled with the soul of Love. 







JHh^-^ JP^' i 


^'''WS-^^m 




|K »^' ^^^I^W^It^ 



'Inverted trees were nearer glassed.'* 
— Page Seventy-eight. 



THE FIREFLIES Page Sixty-five 



If the earth below be so fair to see, 
What, O what, dear Lord, must our Heaven be. 
With its stream of life, and its healing tree, 
And its streets of gold, and its limpid sea. 
And its radiant throng, from their sins now 

free. 
Who tho' tried while here, now are crowned 

with Thee. 

Let the moon go forth all serene and bright. 
And the stars look down from their dizzy 

height. 
And the round v/orld float in their mellow 

light. 
For the earth and stars they are fair and right, 
But the soul aspires to a loftier flight. 
Seeks a softer clime and a fairer sig^ht. 



THE FIREFLIES. 

I saw them, I saw them. 
The fireflies tonight; 

They flashed to each other 
Their signals of light. 

And, knowing their cipher, 
I read them aright. 

Their flight was erratic — 
Now high and then low; 

In low-glooming treetops 
At times would they show, 

Then, dropping like meteors. 
In grass v^ould they glow. 



Page Sixty-siv the fireflies 



The moon in first quarter 
Show'd faintly its ring; 

In alto and treble 
Did little frogs sing; 

While each dancing firefly- 
Its lantern did swing. 



And then there v/as something- 

I can not tell why, 
That flashed o'er my spirit 

And on my soul's eye, 
Outmimicing radiance 

Of airy firefly. 



Again, in the seeming, 
At dusk of the day. 

As barefooted children 
On dusty road-way, 

The fireflies in bottles 
We prisoned in play. 



We kept them 'till morning, — 
Their brightness was gone ; 

Mere bugs without luster 
They crawled every one ; 

What gleamed in the moonlight 
The day had undone.* 



*7 have a vague remembrance of somewhere having 
s6en a poem in which this thought is used, hut "by 
whom, or where, I cannot recall. 



THE FIREFLIES Page Sixty-seven 



And musing half sadly, 

I softly admit, 
Like bottled up fireflies, 

The dreams that once lit 
In star-light my spirit 

With dimness are smit. 

But sometimes in silence. 

When sitting alone. 
Flash out in the twilight, 

As erst they had shone. 
The day-faded visions 

That once I had known. 

And ever Suggestion 
Comes like a refrain, 
"When daylight is ended 
The fireflies again 

Will flash in the darkness 
Their luminous train." 

So, something within us, 
Like fireflies at play, 

Tho' fading in sunlight. 
At dose of the day 

Lights newly Hope's torches 
In flashing array. 

When Death v/ould eclipse us, 

In soul and in face, 
(Like fireflies at ev'ning 

In crystalline vase) 
Our day-faded star-dreams 

Will shine with new grace. 



Page Sixty -eight the voices 

Then Silence and Myst'ry 

Grown vocal and bright, 
Shall voice our deep muteness, 

While fragrant and white, 
Fair tho'ts that were timid 

Shall blossom with light. 

So Swedenborg, Plato, 

And Maeterlinck hold 
What Faith and the firefly 

And star-dreams have told, 
And Christ has confirmed it 

With words of pure gold. 



AUTUMN. 

[Written in 1876 or 7, largely during a stroll along 
the Miami River Muffs, south of Dayton, Ohio.] 



THE VOICES. 

I wandered forth, one afternoon. 
To where the hills far, far away, 

In smoky air sleep silently. 

And shadows in the hollows play. 



THE VOICES Page Sixty-nine 



I crossed a stream where faded leaves 
Were slowly borne on rippling waves, 

And as they passed they softly said, 
*'A11 men are drifting to their graves." 

I saw a train dash o'er a bridge. 

And as it sped I heard it say, 
"Be quick to see and seize and do, 

For thus it is time speeds away." 

I laid me down where mournful winds 
Thro' pensive woodland tree-tops sigh, 

And these, I thought spoke of the tomb. 
So sad they moaned while floating by. 

I saw upon the maple boughs 

The hectic flush of Autumn glow, 

"Thus Nature warns," 'twas said, "and would 
The nearness of Death's Winter Show." 

I saw the golden shocks of corn. 
Far off, all standing in their lines. 

And to my soul they seemed to say, 
"Thus plumy youth to age declines." 

With grief I thought of loved ones dead. 
And dear gone scenes of childhood's day; 

The falling leaves made answer low, 
"Man as his dreams shall fade away." 

And then there spoke in Druid tongue 
A fallen oak decayed and brown, 

"The ax is edging for the hour 

When Doom will hfv thy body down." 



Page Seventy the passing of autumn 



A steep hill side I upward climbed, 
Then sat me down to catch my breath, 

But evening shadows dark'ning 'round, 

Whisper'd "Thus come the shades of death/ 

I saw a star dart through the sky 
And quickly vanish out of sight; 

"The lamp of life," the signal told, 

"Must thus go out in cheerless night." 

Then thro' the gloom a sweet voice said, 
"Cast all thy doubts and fears away. 

There is a star, a glorious Sun, 

Will change death's night to endless day." 



THE PASSING OF AUTUMN. 

SUNRISE ON A FROSTY MORNING. 

See the white smoke rise 
Into cloudless skies. 
And the chaste cold light 
Of the star shines bright 
Thro' the crotch out there 
Of the Cottonwood bare. 

Frozen pool and v/alk 
Powdered seem with chalk, 
And a fairy sprite 
Has the grass turned white. 
And with silv'ry spines 
Has it armed the pines. 



THE MAN WITH. THE AX Page Scveuty-oHe 



There are orange streaks 
Where the cold sun seeks 
To relight his fires, 
"While the white 'phone wires 
O'er the pole tops reach, 
Like a silk web each. 

Like a mill roof white, 
Spread with flour-dust light. 
Does each house-roof slope. 
And on vine and rope, 
Berry-bush and corn. 
Glisten pearls this mom. 

But the south slant ray 
Of the rising day 
Now dissolves the veil 
From the fair face pale. 
And the virgin morn 
Is a widow lorn. 

WINTER. 

THE MAN WITH THE AX. 

The Summer has come and the Summer is past, 
And "the man with the hoe," he is out of 

a job, 
The pastures are bare and are swept by the 

blast. 
And the cattle for grass must eat "corn on 

the cob," 
While scraggy-haired colts are turned out to 

the stalks. 
But the woodman he whistles a tune as he 

walks. 



Page S event y-tzvo the man with the ax 



The Summer brings harvest of oats and of 
wheat, 
And the meadows are strewn with the fra- 
grant new hay; 
And Autumn gives apples, and pumpkin and 
beet, 
And the fruits and the nuts make the gather- 
ers gay; 
But fruits for the cellar and wheat for the 

stacks 
Have a rival in the harvest of the wood chop- 
per's ax. 

The scythe is keen edged and the sword is a 

power, 
And the reaper, old Time, mows a path thro' 

the years, 
And age falls in ripeness and childhood in 

flower, 
And the sword hews a channel for blood and 

for tears; 
But the woodman he smites with a stroke that 

ne'er tires, 
For his ax cleaves the wood for the home-altar 

fires. 



The snowflakes have wrapped in white down 
the dark earth, 
And the woods a black fringe show against 
the cold sky; 
When all appears dead that in Summer had 
birth, 
And there's not a bird songster a solo to try, 
Then cheery as notes of the robin in Spring 
Does the ax of the woodman re-echo and ring. 



"Against the moonlight's mellow glare. 
On lofty towers hung." 

-Page Seventy-nine, 



THE MAN WITH THE AX Page Scvcuty-tJircc 



A man of wood-craft the good axman is he, 
He knov^s well the name and the nature of 
wood, 
Can chip, and make fall any sort of a tree 

In the very direction he willed that it should ; 
And when it is down on its body he stands. 
And he severs the giant, with the ax in his 
hands. 



This man of the woods is a surgeon of trees, 
He can chop a straight cut or a flying slant 
chip, 
He can halve with his wedge, if it so should 
him please. 
And can quarter, and heart, and around the 
knot slip, 
'Til body and limbs into cordwood he racks. 
For an artist is he vnth the wedge and the ax. 

• 

He swings his great maul like the hammer of 

Thor, 
And the cord-lengths fly open of oak and of 

beach, 
'Till the clearing at last is with wood scattered 

o'er. 
And heaped up as high as the chopper can 

reach 
Are the tepees of brush that the axman has 

made 
In the places where trees by his ax were low 

laid. 



Page Seventy-four the man with the ax 



All corded and straight thro' the Summer shall 

lie 
All the wood that the woodman in Winter 

has chopped, 
In wind and in sun will the sticks slovdy dry, 
And when Winter again plow and reaper 

has stopped, 
The farmer to sheds with his horses will draw 
What the axman has cut for the buck and the 

saw. 

And often the farmer, the evening before. 
Will upon his red wagon pile up a good load 

To haul it to town for some dwelling or store, 
And the wheels of his broad-tread will sing 
on the road. 

With four horses drawing it over the snow. 

For the axman's dry wood to the city must go. 

No call for the scholar, no chance for us all. 

Had the march of the axman the forest not 

cleared ; 

He opened the place for the millionaire's hall, 

And he widened the fields for the corn 

golden-eared ; 

"Fire worship" for Hawthorne, and Mabie's 

"study fire," 
Were it not for the axman, must surely expire. 

A priest is the woodman with maul and with 
wedge, 
And a woodcraft, clairvoyant magician is he, 
A Druid whose ax has no blood on its edge, 

For he offers the life of the meek forest tree ; 
But doomed to extinction with Druids, Alas! 
By the coal-man supplanted, the axman shall 
pass. 



MORNING ON THE MISSISSIPPI Pacjc Scveuty-five 

River Side Poems 

MORNING ON THE MISSISSIPPI. 

O solemn flood that speakest e'er 

A message felt, but not translated 
By any poet, sage, or seer 

Who Nature's story ever prated. 

If but the tongue could paint what lies 
Within the answ'ring heart reflected, 

'Twere such a scene as mortal eyes 
Have never anywhere inspected. 

The morn shows visions to the eye 

Of low green isles in silver floating, 
Of mist-veiled shores, and depths where He 

Deep shades abysmal thoughts denoting. 

A sacred hush is over all. 

And tree-dark woods stand v/ithout motion, 
The flashing rays on ripples fall. 

And who could see nor feel devotion. 

From wooded isles and amber hills 
The broad and shining tide emerges; 

Through wilderness, by towns and mills. 
Its lordly current seaward surges. 

Boats gash this flood with iron prow. 
And darkling storms in anger score it, 

But placid is its bosom now. 

As if the peace of God were o'er it. 



Page ScTcnty-six KEOKUK— a Story of Prospect Point 



KEOKUK— A STORY OF PROSPECT 
POINT. 

{After all that can truthfully he said in palliation 
of the white mans way with the Indians tUere yet 
remains an clement of pathos and injustice in the 
treatment they have received. The "Mole,'" as Black 
Hawk styled the ''Paleface,'' did not a little Arrow- 
ing, one way and another, in connection with the In- 
dian's ejectment. 

This poem attempts to put the matter as it might 
appear to a modern Indian who, to some extent, has 
been brought under the influence of ''Government 
Schools" and our civilization. 

The boat incident actually occurred. The river and 
country scenes are such as may be ivitnessed any 
Autumn from the bluffs near Muscatine. Many In- 
dian graves are found in this locality, and a few miles 
up the river is the site of the Indian toivn from 
which, by a combination of fraud and force, the In- 
aians were so heartlessly driven. 

Speaking of the country around Muscatine, Mr. 
Irving B. Richman, in his book, "John Brown Among 
the Quakers, and Other Sketches." says "Here loas the 
favorite hunting ground of the great Sac chief, Maka- 
taimeshekiakiak, Black (sparrow) Hawk. * * * 
Here also the eloquent and ivily Sac chief, Keokuk, 
used to hunt and divell; the name Keokuk Lake still 
serving to designate an expansion at one point of the 
loaters of Muscatine slough. 

"No scene of blood, so far as known, ever has been 
enacted on the immediate spot ivhere Muscatine 
stands. The most thrilling picture ivhich it suggests 
is that of a billowy mass of flames siveeping for miles 
the surface of a loic. level island and bringing into 
relief against the sky the form of somtC Indian watcher 
upon the lonely hills."] 

Where Mississippi pours his flood 

Along a widening course, 
Reflecting sunset hues like blood, 

Or skies blue as turquoise. 
On headland carved as Nature could 
A solitary stranger stood. 



KEOKUK— A Story of Prospect Point Page Scventx-sez'en 



Belov/ him spread a foodful plain — 

A sea of gold and green, 
Where corn-waves rolled as o'er a main 

Plowed by the coulter keen, 
And ridgey rows with tassels white 
Streamed like a vessel's wake at night. 

Upon this vale of gold and green 
Red barns, and strips of hedge, 

And orchard-bowered homes were seen ; 
And like a council lodge 

The rounded oat stack gleaming stood 

Against an upward spreading v/ood. 



A foothill road wound like a trail 

By Indian ponies made, 
A train of cars along the rail 

In roaring triumph sped, 
And circling hills on every side 
Flung out the echoes far and wide. 

From out a realm fair as a dream 

Of Happy Hunting-ground, 
Swept round a bend the mighty stream, 

Calm and without a sound; 
From mystic hills it seemed to rise. 
The Manitou of earth and skies. 

From beach and bank wide terraced woods 
Sloped like a woodland stair. 

And naked bluffs for many roods 
Loomed through the purple air, 

And mimic isles he saw divide 

The river's broad, majestic tide. 



Page Seventy-eight KEOKUK-A Story of Prospect Point 



Inverted trees v/ere nearer glassed, 

And golden bars of sand ; 
And willow wildernesses massed 

Their shade on either hand ; 
And mirrored banks were like green cliffs 
With pictographs and petroglyphs. 

The stranger gazed with piercing eye 

As when an eagle looks, 
Their boats he saw shell fishers ply 

And sink their drags of hooks. 
O'er mussel beds he saw them drift 
And rows of shellfish upward lift. 

He watched a launch itself propel 

Against the current's force; 
A sail-yacht saw dance on the swell 

Along its twilight course; 
A steamboat searchlight from afar 
Gleamed o'er the wavelets like a star. 

From each tall stack a trail of smoke 
Swept like a chieftain's plume. 

The great wheel churned with paddle stroke 
The river like a flume, 

Till slanting waves like parting scrolls 

Rolled up the banks and o'er the shoals. 

Song from the deck as near it drew 

Came rolling up the steep. 
And all the lights their image threw 

Like campfires in the deep, 
Till, passing down, joined with the song 
The landing-whistle loud and long. 



KEOKUK— A Story of Prospect Point Page Seventy-nine 



Against the moonlight's mellow glare, 

On lofty towers hung, 
High o'er the flood, in middle air, 

A bridge its arches flung; 
Of woven steel, it seemed so slight 
'Twas m.eant for spirits in their flight. 

The steamer faded from his view 
As 'neath the bridge it passed ; 

With rounding sweep it wharfward drew, 
And cables bound it fast ; 

And forth and back the crew passed o'er, 

And passengers, to boat or shore. 

A throng on land sent up a cry — 
We heard the fire-horn blare; 

A lurid light shot up the sky — 
The boat was burning there ; 

Her decks were canopied with flames. 

And songs of joy had turned to screams. 

Toward that light with sudden gaze 
The stranger turned his face ; 

At first the city seemed ablaze — 
I started there apace: 

When I had come, if he had heard. 

He neither looked, nor spoke a word. 

But now he stretched his shad'wy arm, 

And bade me not be gone ; 
"Let others shield the town from harm, 

Let us stand here alone;" 
"We stand," he said, "upon a place 
Made sacred to a failing race." 



Page Eighty keokuk- a story of Prospect Point 



'*With stone the white man marks the graves 

Where sleep his kindred dear, 
Unmarbled lie the buried braves 

With bow and arrov/s near, 
But yet from far as set of sun ^ 

Their children's hearts will hither run. 

"From western plains I came afar 

To see this river land, 
I journeyed long 'neath sun and star 

To stand where we now stand; 
Here Fox and Sac, our old men tell, 
In lodge and town were wont to dwell. 

"Twas here they lit their council fires. 
And gathered here their braves; 

Here is the Hunt-land of my sires, 
And in these mounds their graves; 

And up and down this river blue 

Their paddles drove the swift canoe. 

"Gone is the wolf, and gone the bear. 

And gone the buck and doe; 
No eagle screams aloft in air. 

No fox runs o'er the snow; 
The white man's bullet on the plain 
The herds of buffalo has slain. 

"The North-land forests in whose gloom 

The lonely moose should roam. 
The log-man's ax will strike with doom. 

Nor leave the elk a home; 
Thus both of game and woods bereft, 
Naught for the Indian is left. 




'From ivestern plains I came afar 
To see this river-land.'' 



Page Eighty. 



KEOKUK— A Story of Prospect Point Page Eighty-one 



"The mole dug deep; the hawk swept down 

To strike the digger dead; 
The mole broke up the Indian's town, 

And squaws and braves have fled ; 
Tecumseh fell, shot to the ground. 
And Black Hawk's wings the vvhite man 
bound. 

"Their campfires died along the hills, 

Their tepees are no more; 
Forced by your towns and boats and mills, 

They left the river shore; 
They wronged themselves in savage war, 
But drink and white men wronged them more. 

"We learn your tongue in Indian school, 

To speak our own is shame; 
I talk as neither ghost nor fool, 

I know your kin, and game; 
As yon red fire fades into night 
My race in yours shall fade fro m.sight." 

The stranger ceased and silent stood, 

And I, with hush of blame. 
Stood silent too, in softened mood. 

And then inquired his name; 
"My blood," he said, and bosom struck, 
"Is from the veins of Keokuk." 

The flames were fading from the sky, 
For firemen quenched them low; 

I saw, and turned to say goodby. 
Intending home to go — 

The stranger thro' the gloom had flown. 

And I was standing there alone. 



Page Eighty-tzvo when the ice goes out 

WHEN THE ICE GOES OUT OF THE 

MISSISSIPPI. 

Aloft in mid-air, 

On the bridge's high arch, 

I stand all alone, 

On a morning in March; 

The mist hides the sun, 

And a raw wind is blowing, 

But the Winter is done. 

For the ice it is going. 

The dark fringe of trees 
On the ^'Island of Hogs," 
Frowns sullen and low 
Thro' the gray ghostly fogs; 
But flies the wild duck 
As an augury showing 
That Winter's dead struck. 
And the ice must be going. 

Out o'er the wide flood 
Rides the Winter-built fleet. 
Where Tzar of the frost. 
With cold and with sleet, 
Long held in blockade 
All the traffic from flowing. 
But now it's un-stayed. 
And the ice it is going. 



WHEN THE ICE GOES OUT Page Eighty-three 



Far down 'neath the bridge 
Sweeps the dizzying drift, 
An endless ice floe 
On a tide deep and swift; 
Shields broken like glass, 
In the frost's overthrowing, 
Grind piers as they pass, 
For the ice must keep going. 

The wily old crow 
Flaps his wings in the fog. 
The hunters push out 
With boat and with dog; 
New charms for old yachts 
From the paint-pots are flowing, 
While people, in knots. 
Watch the ice that is going. 

The log-men float rafts 
From the far wooded North, 
The house-boat is launched, 
And the barges creep forth; 
The packet un-docks. 
And the tugs begin towing, 
When the river unlocks, 
And the ice-drift is going. 

Still onward, and on. 
From Itasca's white snow, 
In wild broken ranks 
Do the ice squadrons go ; 
Where birds sing and plume, 
And magnolias are blowing. 
To Summer's gulf-doom 
Is the ice surely going. 



Page Eighty-four phantoms of the mill 



And lives are as streams, 
And as rivers they flow 
'Neath tunnels of ice, 
Between castles of snow; 
Their shore-lines are bare. 
And the blizzards keep blowing 
'Till love warms the air. 
When the ice will be going. 



PHANTOMS OF THE MILL. 

The doors are shut, the blinds are down. 

And all the house is still. 
And o'er the silent sleeping town 
The snow lies pale and chill. 
But in my ear 
I plainly hear 
The music of a mill. 

On vision-wings I fly away 

To scenes long left behind, 
Tho' sitting here in Iowa, 
A miller's cot I find 
In Hoosier State, 
And tho' 'tis late, 
I hear the old mill grind. 

A boy again, I'm on the dam. 

The ice is smooth and wide, 
With shinney-clubs we fight and slam 
As o'er the ice we glide; 
"High buck, low doe?" 
And off we go. 
To shinney on our side. 



PHANTOMS OF THE MILL Page Eighty-five 



Again I walk the mill-race bank 

Where once the willows stood, 
Again the turtle plays his prank 
Upon the duckling brood, 
Pulls down his prize 
Before my eyes. 
Beneath the old mill's flood. 

Once more, at night, I go with gun 

Where muskrats tunnel ill 

And thro' the bank let water run 

And take it from the mill. 

And where I see 

Their rippling "V" 

I shoot, and shoot to kill. 

And now, again a miller-boy, 

I stand within the door 
And all my strength and skill employ 
To land the grist once more; 
The farmers come, 
The mill-stones hum. 
Just as in years before. 

With water from the overshot 

The great wheel-buckets fill. 
And in the walled up mossy grot, 
Upon its axle sill. 

With rhythmic drip. 
And measured dip. 
The slow wheel drives the mill. 



Page Eighty -six phantoms of the mill 

And as I listen to its rhyme, 
Tho' all without is still, 
Sweet voices join the liquid chime 
And all my being thrill. 
And faces dear 
Again draw near 
And greet me in the mill. 

They come, they come, with Quaker grace. 

And I smile thro' my tears; 
They have not changed in garb or face 
Thro' twice a score of years; 
Tho' some, I know. 
Died long ago. 
Each in the mill appears. 

Again I see their house of prayer. 

The school house by its side; 
Again with them I gather there. 
And feel the shame of pride; 
For then alway. 
On their "First Day," 
Mill work was laid aside. 

Now of the school I hear the roll 
Called by the whirling buhrs, 
I answer name, so "Tom," the droll, 
And "Mary" answers hers; 
In monotone 
The mill goes on 
And still my spirit stirs. 



M E R A M E c Page Eighty-seven 



But O! I mind there came a day, 

Forget I never will, 
We dropped the gate and shut away 
The water from the wheel; 
With tear and sigh, 
I said goodbye — 
Forever, to the mill. 

But Mem'ry comes and lifts the gate. 

Bright waters flow and beam. 
And loose the tusks of ice that late 
Upon the wheel did gleam. 
And frosty years, 
Like crystal spears. 
Melt in the old mill stream. 

But where are ye, friends of my youth? 

Came to you woe, or weal? 

If I could tell you all the truth 

Of what for you I feel, 

'Twere such outgo 

As the o'erflow 

Of that old water-wheel. 



^ 



MERAMEC. 

[Written on the tanks of the Meramec River, near 
Meramec Highlands, a park resort out of St. Louis, 
Mo.] 

Swift-flowing Meramec 
Along thy brink I'm straying 
To hear thy liquid notes 
And heed what thou art saying. 



Page Eighty-eight m e r a m e c 



Green-fringed thy farther edge, 
With gravel red contrasting; 
On this rise bluff and hills, 
Thy barriers everlasting. 

Thy stretching silv'ry flood 
Through misty woods is flowing, 
And slanting trees their shade 
Into thy depths are throwing. 

In thee the changeful sky 
Its filmy clouds is glassing. 
And puffs of playful winds 
Are o'er thy bosom passing. 

The dizzy water bugs 
In shady nooks are playing. 
The drooping willow trees 
Upon thy banks are swaying. 

Stray leaves like little ships 
Upon thy waves are sailing. 
And in thy current cool 
The mosses green are trailing. 

Deep dives the fisher bird 
And rises straightway screaming. 
While fish and pebbles bright 
Are in thy waters gleaming. 

The coon his tracks at night 
Prints on thy margin muddy, 
Birds to thy brink, and squirrels. 
Come in the morning ruddy. 



DEJECTION Page Eighty -nine 



Tovvn-v/earied men on thee 
With hungry eyes are gloating, 
While on thy tide in skiffs 
Are youths and maidens floating. 

A road winds to thy ford 
Beside a boatman's cottage, 
A child is ferried o'er, 
An old man in his dotage. 

From matted bushes hang 
Green vines thy waves caressing 
Where e'er thy waters go 
Life takes from thee a blessing. 

Thy waves the secret hold 
Of Nature's might and mystery; 
Thy ripple-written course 
Is read as cosmic history. 



MOODS. 
I. 

DEJECTION. 

{Written on the 'banks of Skunk River, near 
Anves, Iowa.] 

I came beside a river's bank 
At noon upon a Summer day, 
A nameless sadness on me lay. 

And heart and brain were sick and blank. 



Page Ninety dejection 



I came alone, upon my wheel, 

And in a pouch (from Switzerland) 
Had book and lunch, for I had planned 

In Nature's peace my mood to heal. 

I locked my study door behind. 

And left the town soon out of sight, 
And leaving road-way to the right, 

Wheel'd o'er a path with crook and wind. 

I reached the woodland's outer rim. 

And lo, the trees were leaning back 
Against the hill with haughty lack 

Of welcome in their shadows grim. 

And where the hill swept down to plain, 
Some barb-set wires, to keep me out, 
Around the woods were girt about. 

And closed the way with spears and chain. 

But humbled to the dust at last, 

I under crept on hands and knees. 
And soon myself 'neath sullen trees 

Upon the river's verge I cast. 

Alas! the river flowed with mud, 

Like ghastly fingers lean and lank 
Old roots stuck out from caved off bank. 

And wreck and drift choked up the flood. 

Like mamm.oth bones the white logs lay 
Upon the bars of washed up sand ; 
'Twixt dying trees on either hand 

The sluggish river slimed its way. 



DEJECTION Page Ninety-one 



Ill-omened crows came two and three 

And flapped their wings o'er where I lay, 
Then like black devils flew away, 

And perched aloft and cursed at me. 

The very beast that led the herd 

With angry hoof tore up the ground 
And bellowed hoarse his protest round, 

And I was serf and he was lord. 

The pasture trees with ropes of vine 

Had draped themselves in loop and 

snare, 
Their snaky folds they swung in air 

And made at me a deadly sign 

Cyclones of sand whirled in the wind. 
And swept the bosom of the stream, 
As when some fearful, fateful dream 

O'ersweeps the soul or one who sinned. 

A sullen frown came o'er the sky. 

The rain-crow called his rain alarm, 
• The silvery willows hinted storm. 
The lowering sun showed day must die. 

I strapped my pouch, its book unread. 
And leaned a moment on my wheel; 
"How dark," I mused, "the heart can feel 
If God speak not, the world looks dread." 

"Time rolls its turbid current o'er 

The roots and wrecks of all the past 
And right and refuse sweeps at last 

Into the gulf of Nevermore." 



Page Ninety-two exhilaration 



"And ravens croak, and omens throw 

Their shadows o'er the orphaned heart, 
'Till High God makes with Christly art 

His conscious life into it flow." 

And then I turned my wheel about 

In twilight homeward now to ride, 
And prayed that light in me abide, 

E'en tho' the world be dark without. 



II. 
EXHILARATION. 

I came again one afternoon 

Along the bank to wander, 
And such was Nature's mood that now 

"Dejection's" verse was slander. 

The crabbed fence beneath whose wires 
I crept with hate and humbling. 

Still showed its teeth, but let me pass. 
And gave no cause for grumbling. 

The side-hill trees with shadows soft 
Seemed waiting to caress me, 

And meek-eyed cows with fragrant breath 
Just mooed as if they'd bless me. 

The sun looked down with smiling face. 
And shone 'twixt elm and willow. 

And bland the river flashed his light 
From every little billow. 



EXHILARATION Page Ninety-three 

The crows retired to far-off haunts, 
And cawed with better manners; 

And swayed the grape-vines their festoons 
Like green and graceful banners. 

Where bony roots reached from the bank, 

A symbol dread and dreary, 
The martins bored and built their nests. 

And flew with frolic cheery. 

The snags and logs and piles of drift 
That seemed but wreckage cruel. 

Were but the river's kindly work 
In piling up some fuel. 

The winds no more swept up the sand 

With whirling gust and flurry, 
In evening calm the squirrel came 

To drink and homeward scurry. 

The cow boys drove the Jerseys home, 
The shadows deepened 'round me. 

And feelings deep, too deep for words, 
In Nature's silence found me. 

No rain-crow called a storm alarm. 

As bright the sun was setting; 
And wheeling home, I said to God, 

"Here's nothing for regretting." 



Page Ninety-Four drifting 



TWO POINTS OF VIEW. 

[The following verses are given as they originally 
appeared in the Topeka Daily Capital. The author 
of "'Drifting'^ ivrote under the pen name of ''Kaw'' and 
is otherwise unknoivn to the writer. ^'Stemming the 
Tide'' was writtien as an ansicer to the sentiments ex- 
pressed in ''Drifting:"] 

DRIFTING. 

O ! Why not drift, 
Why bend the oar, 
The tide is swift — 
I'm far from shore. 

The breakers dread 
Are left behind, 
Why should I care; 
The fates are kind. 

They guide my bark 
Where winds are fair. 
What safer ark 
Were mine by prayer? 

What faith can bring 
Me surer rest — 
To what hope cling — 
What faith is best? 



Who e'er was led 
By mystery, 
Or creed-born faith, 
And yet was free? 



STEMMING THE TIDE Page Niticty-five 



Must not they strive, 
And constant war, 
Who shield their faith. 
Forever-more? 

If I have faith. 
Must not I this, 
Bow 'neath its creed, 
Its stern rod kiss? 

Then let me drift 
Life's ocean wide. 
The tide is swift. 
Free, let me ride. 

And, if at last, 
I MUST proclaim 
Belief, and faith — 
In Heaven's King, 

Let it be this — 
And THIS be all- 
God, God is just! 
He WILL RECALL. 

By "Kaw" Topeka, Kansas, August 17, 1885. 



STEMMING THE TIDE. 

Answer to ''Drifting.'' 

Why should I drift. 
Nor bend the oar; 
The tide is swift — 
I'm far from shore. 



Page Ninety-six 



STEMMING THE TIDE 



Dread breakers frown 
Before, behind — 
Why trust alone 
The fates unkind. 

They pledge no bark 

For havens fair. 

A safer ark 

Were mine by prayer. 

Calm faith can bring 
Me surer rest — 
Christ reigns the King- 
That faith is best. 

Who e'er that fled 
From mystery, 
By doubt was led, 
And yet was free? 

Must not they strive 
In inner wars. 
Who doubtful drive 
To unknown shores? 

If faith I flee, 
Then far worse this — 
Fate's stern decree, 
Fate's rod to kiss. 

No slave I'll drift 
Life's ocean wide, 
Though ne'er so swift, 
I'll stem the tide. 




"But Mem'ry covvss and lifts the gate. 
Bright waters flow and beam.'' 

- rage Eighty-sevea. 



THE PILOT Page Ninety-seven 



Then, Vv?hen at last 
I trembling cling, 
'Mid wave and blast, 
To Heaven's King, 

This be my cheer — 
And this be all — 
Christ, Christ will hear 
Who on him call. 

H. D. H., Chapman. Kansas, August 25, 1885. 



THE PILOT. 

\This hallad was written at the suggestion of a 
clergyman friend in 1877, ichen the author was a semi- 
nary student at Dayton, Ohio, and is founded on a 
supposedly true incident related in Foster's Encyclo- 
pedia of Prose Illustrations.] 



PROLOGUE. 

How oft we sing men great in words. 

How oft men great in frightful wars ; 

The bloody cross seems less to us 
Than bloody spear of cruel Mars. 

We give applause to flaunting Fame 

For deeds less brave than shrewdly done, 

While humble men, heroic-souled. 

For Christ-like deeds sometimes get none. 



Page Ninety-eight the pilot 



Our Mammon songs we muffle ill, 

And sordid hearts, in church and state, 

Hymn still their songs to gods of wealth 
By right of bank and palace, great. 

The comic song can catch the ear. 

And pleasure's wine, in gilded hall. 

Can loose the tongue in sportive jest. 
While goodness seems a cup of gall. 

Yet to my plain Wordsworth'an verse, 
I pray you, kind attention give, 

For humbly great and good was he 
Who in my song again shall live. 



THE STORY. 

White clouds, like messengers of peace, 
Were floating in the noonday sun. 

O'er Erie's lake to peaceful sleep 

By air soft warm and dreamy won. 

Then from Detroit a steamer steered, 

With looming prow and steady keel. 

Smoke-breathing stacks, and engines strong 
To turn the huge propeller wheel. 

She plowed her way thro' parting waves, 

Which 'round her bow in white would 
break. 

And, plumed with foam, would backward rush 
To toss and dance along her wake. 



THE PILOT Page Ninety-nine 



Her captain was a kindly man, 

As brave and brusk as captains are, 

A crew she had who feared no storm, 
Her pilot's name was John Maynar. 

And children fair were on her decks. 

And men and women young and old ; 

And store of wheat, or other grain. 
And tar and rosin in her hold. 

So onward swept the queenly craft 
'Til busy wharf was seen no more. 

And dark the forest, like a cloud. 

Hung on the silver-stranded shore. 

And all was peace, and all was joy 

Within that floating mimic world. 

When lo, a smoke the Captain saw 

Which from the hatchway slowly curled. 

Then rang his voice in steady tones, 

"Hey, Simpson! quick, there; down and 
see 

Whence comes that midship cloud of smoke, 
And what the cause of it may be." 

Down quickly went that sailor then, 

But quicker up again he came. 
With ashy cheeks and staring eyes. 

And cried, "The ship, she's all aflame!" 

Then, "fire !" "fire !" "fire !" from women pale 
And men in fear of flame and wave. 

Rang o'er the decks in clamor wild, 

But naught could they the ship to save 



Page One Hundred the pilot 



Though passengers and all the crew 
Threw water on the roaring fire, 

The tar and rosin fed the flames, 

Which fiercer grew and leaped the higher. 

Then rushed the passengers in front. 
In fear and anguish there to cow'r. 

For far from land, to reach the shore 

Would take three-quarters of an hour. 

The Captain thro' his trumpet cried 

Unto the pilot John Maynar, 
"How heads the ship, and can you tell 

How far, about, from land we are?" 

Then answered him, the pilot brave, 

"South-east by East, now does she head, 

And we are seven miles from land;" 

The words filled all with fear and dread. 

Then roared the Captain, "Turn her south, 
And run her, if you can, to shore." 

The burning ship was quickly veered. 
Then on toward the land she bore. 

The fire now burst upon the deck 

And wrapped the pilot-house in flame; 

The crew rushed forward with the rest. 
But John Maynar not with them came. 

And women prayed, and children cried. 
And strongest men grew deathly pale. 

The sailors silent stood aghast, 

The Captain's hope began to fail. 



THE PILOT Page One Hundred One 



And mothers clasped their infants dear, 
And tearful eyes looked into eyes 

Which gave them back no gleam of hope 
To make the sinking spirit rise. 



For sullen roar of heat and flame 
Was borne upon the smoky air, 

Like murmurs from that world of woe 
Which has no language but despair. 



On through the waves the burning ship 
Was guided by the pilot's hand; 

The engines throbbed v/ith awful power, 
The ship flew on toward the land. 



Up thro' the smoke, to John Maynar, 
The Captain cried with bodings ill, 

"Stand by five minutes longer, John," 
And he, **Aye, Aye, stand by I will." 



There on that char'd and blazing ship 
Stood all her passengers and crew, 

And gazed upon the nearing shore. 

While scarce their breath for fear they 
drew. 



Still 'round Maynar the tongues of flame 
In hot red circles fierce did reel, 

But could not drive him from his place. 
For still he held the pilot wheel. 



Page One Hundred Two ships that pass in the njght 



His face was burned, his eyes were scorched. 
His hair was singed, one arm wan charred; 

He set his teeth and still he stood, 

Nor ceased the pilot wheel to guard. 

He beached the ship, and all were saved, 
But, Oh! the pilot, John Maynar, — 

His soul flew upward to its God, 

To shine a bright celestial star. 



SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT 

(A Parable of Life.) 

I. 
SAIL AND ANCHOR. 



Two ships had voyaged wide and far 

Across the heaving seas, 
And one was called the Northern Star, 

And one the Pleiades ; 
A Youth had sailed upon the first, 

A Maid upon the last, 
But now, where billows could not burst, 

They both had anchor cast. 



SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT Page One Hundred Three 



Beneath the starry zodiac 

Each found a different shore, 
But now the ships had brought them back 

To native port once more; 
And with but shore-leave of an hour — 

Tho' voyage long had been, 
By guidance of an unseen Power 

They found the selfsame inn. 



II. 



EVENING ASHORE. 



They met, tho' many years had passed. 

And she all queenly shone. 
But o'er his face had swept the blast 

By care and sorrow blown; 
She met him at the open door, 

The lamp lit up her face, 
With palm to palm they stood once more. 

He thanking God's good grace. 

They had been mates in school and play 

When youth was fair and free, 
Had skated hand in hand away 

The lakelet o'er with glee; 
Or in the sunny days of spring, 

Beneath the elms had strolled 
That with the sycamores in ring 

Stood 'round the yard of old. 



Page One Hundred Four ships that pass in the night 



III. 
LAMP AND GOODNIGHT. 

Again within the open door 

She stood where all was bright, 
The lamp shone on her as before 

And streamed into the night; 
For he had passed from out the room 

Where they had said good-bye, 
And paused e'er entering the gloom 

Beneath a starless sky. 

The lamp she held to lighten him 

Gleamed like an angel's torch, 
But left an outer-darkness rim 

Beyond the lighted porch; 
He bowed, and with uncovered head 

Passed on into the night, 
But as he went, "Goodnight," he said, 

And left her in the light. 



SHIPS THAT PASS IN THE NIGHT Page One Hundred Five 



IV. 
OPEN SEA AGAIN. 

But when the sun rose clear and clean 

From out his ocean bath, 
These phantom ships, no longer seen. 

Plowed each its ocean path; 
And both the voyagers had gone, 

Each duty-called and bound, 
Both happier and yet more lone, 

Since each the other found. 

O fellow voyager of mine. 

Is not the story true? 
Such golden meetings, they are thine. 

Such sacred partings, too; 
But Manhood great and Womanhood, 

With separate mystery, 
In charted ways, ordained for good. 

Must "sail with God the sea." 



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